a birth day

Once on the day after Christmas I lost an earring,

half of my Christmas present, a little smiling kawaii squid

(this in the bad old starving days 

when I was a girlshape made of brittle glass,

I wasn’t sad

I wasn’t sad)

it slipped out sometime that day—

when I was pulling espresso shots, ignoring 
the cramping 
and the clotting—

or maybe later at the clinic.

I don’t remember their faces, 

just the white coats

the necklace stethoscopes

they said any residual tissue would be 
taken

lab tested

I guess they sent us the papers

later

I was too numb then to ask 
for the scraps 

so we left 

bereft 

All I had of you then 

was my lost earring 

Later you gave
your first 
last

best 

gift:

the glass cracked 

that night 

we cried,

I cried

I could never have been your mother

I tried

I tried

I think that I was born then,

when you died

gray november

A soft gray shawl, pulled
in around the earth, warm, wispy,
near: November sky

 *

Invisible birds embroider November:
Long satin whistling,
twitters picked and clustered,
french knots
in a gray flannel sky.
And at brown bushes
and leafbare branches,
they loop their songs,
crochet their lace around
the world's winter border.

 *

this warm november
the sky
is soft and gray and sweet
sad
like a beloved, outgrown toy

damp and close on the earth
and on shoulders
pressing down the corners of your eyes

it says, curl up your toes
your eyes look tired
sit down awhile
sleep

*

let's be bears today
it's too damn cold to get up
november morning

haiku september

less angry sun. The waspsbuzz around the eaves, the bush,
buzz loud, do not rest

one last rose, magenta
magnificent, full blown, drops
lazy petals down

the grass, full green, strewn
with dropped leaves dried to old gold,
smells dry, smells warm, smells sweet

sometimes through the gold
still air, a furtive giggle,
a hint: fall visiting

moments

Each day is a fist
full of moments.

Snot smeared fingers
brandish a bouquet
of boogers:
Here, Mom!
They are always for me.

Let's pretend
I don't notice you, quietly
poking little sticks
into the seams of the brown couch
and unpicking them.
White fluffs of stuffing drift
like spring flowers.

Let's pretend
you are dinosaurs, lumbering
through strewn toys;
you are better at sharing
when you are dinosaurs.
I am the mountain sleeping
on the brown couch,
I do not want
to erupt.
This volcano can sleep for
millions
and millions
of years.

The baby, walking
Here: hold
my huge finger
in your little fist.
Your folded hands are warm and tender
as wilting flowers.

angry

God help us
it were better to have drowned

than to come before your throne
and be found
wearing chains that we hammered

hammered and bound
around our hearts and our children's

nailed to our doorposts
nailed to our gates
nailed to our foreheads
nailed to our feet

You told us good news:
we made dead gold copies
of the gospel
and wore it like crowns

Made chains out of grace
God
help us--
it were better to have drowned

GUEST POST

First ever guest post. Original poetry by Geneva Pritzel. To be performed with dramatic hand motions.

KICKING POETRY

Tootie is the most cutest creature I have ever seen.
I love her very much.
Even when she kicked me
Under the piano
So I had to hold up a Star Wars box lid to shield myself
From her kicks.
I wish she was kinder.
Like Mom said in her poem,
She is really agile.
When she scoots the piano bench
To the piano
She climbs up onto the piano bench
And then up onto the keys
To get up to the top of the piano.

I am ready
And set
To read
But too excited
Since my Grandma Vivi
And Aunt Helen
Are coming to visit!
Yahoo!
I can't wait!

Mom says it's time
To turn off the poem.
So bye bye
Until she lets me write another poem!

How To Write A Poem

Ignore the baby screaming.

Ignore her little sharp and feral teeth
sunk in your neck
behind you in the seat
year old and agile:

ignore her screams
and nod to Jar Jar Binks
propped up and earless
by the screen--

Nod to Jar Jar Binks
search for the file--
it's been a week, two weeks--
it's been a while.
Type a line. Delete.

Type a line. Delete.
Ignore the baby's screams,
her urgent teeth.
Move Jar Jar Binks.
Adjudicate a squabble.
Type.
Delete.

Ignore the baby dancing in the chair,
Felix pulling out Geneva's hair.
Spank everyone.
Throw Goldfish into bowls.

The baby's typing now,
with Jar Jar's feet.
The baby's dancing Jar Jar on the keys.
Delete. Delete. Delete.

Peel the baby from your chair.
The big kids, too.
Spank everyone again.
Cry. Type a line. 
Save changes, if you dare.
Close out the file.
Come back tomorrow,

next week--

It could be a while.

found an old poem from baby felix

Don't ask me to string together syllables
abstractions or analyses--like beads
my brain congeals--these days
are thick: concrete, real
with rosetender skin
soured milk smell
squawks and squabbles, babbles
whys and wipes
stepped-on rice grains gluing themselves to socks
my body and my heart on call
to be poured out or spread
for hungry mouths and minds--

Dear god, make me the widow's cup of oil
this drop i have, this last drop
this very last drop
and still finding the last drop there 
to take
with one last fist of flour
hands falling into the familiar knead and press
to bake, again,
into their daily bread

economics 2

2.
In God's kingdom we all
make the same trade

can't refuse His demand: All

so we bring our hands full
what we made

of ourselves
What could we have saved?

so many handsful of trash
shredded and stinking

keeping back nothing

not the hate, not the scars
not the sick, not the dark

Come, said the Master
Come as you are

Come with all you have to offer
all you should have been

all the truth you scoffed at
all you're still too sick to see

Come make the trade.
Receive

All you need.
Paid in full.
 
Oh we fools! Clever monkeys
we cherish our reckoning

each with her bank book.
How much thanksgiving

is correct? Is this living:
pay our debts, tally dues

count up who's an honor
to the Kingdom? Do you

hold a list and check it
to watch your sister's credit

is she really repenting
enough to earn her pardon?

He said it was finished
Paid in full

this terrible measure:
for every sin

just recompense
And the Lord has laid on Him

the iniquity
of us ALL

Dear monkeys, little sheep,
let us wash off this filthy reckoning

This sister pitted and deformed by sin
receives more mercy, more cherishing

And you, so tender to the law's demands
are fitter to be treated as a man

The one who's been most crushed, who's been most cruel,
who's toiling out of filthy, monstrous places--

will we deny him one scrap of grace
whom God gave All?

No: let us grant more modesty, more grace
to one who brings more shame

and lays it at the Cross:
God for us

Leave off this reek, this tallying
what I brought and what you bring

and have the mind of Christ

Let us breathe and speak and live this trade:
each ALL receives ENOUGH
 
we cannot reckon up the way of Love.

economics 1

1.

I have a house in God's Kingdom,
a good house
well-built, modest--well
within my means. I pay
on the mortgage monthly: three fifty,
more when I can spare

I keep it nice, too: fresh paint yearly, dusted daily,
every corner clean--

Then she comes knocking, wanting
sugar (who doesn't have sugar?)
for cookies or something
Her kids eat too much sugar anyway, it's not good for them
and watch way too much TV--

It's almost midnight
and she comes with her cup

and she says guess what Jesus--

Oh do you know Him? I say

Oh yes, she says Jesus
gave me a mansion

Oh did he I say
a mansion
How expensive
and how do you keep it clean?
I suppose you want to borrow my vacuum cleaner as well I say

Oh yes, she says, he did--
he said it's free